


chasing down light in the indigo

by soleilangel



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan, The Heroes of Olympus - Rick Riordan, The Trials of Apollo - Rick Riordan
Genre: Drama class AU, High School AU, M/M, Mortal AU, Tags to be added
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-18
Updated: 2019-03-18
Packaged: 2019-11-24 05:04:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18161810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soleilangel/pseuds/soleilangel
Summary: it’s pretty self explanatory. they’re in high school. in a freshman drama class.





	chasing down light in the indigo

**Author's Note:**

> title from overgrown by oh wonder.  
> i do not have ADHD, dyslexia, anxiety, etc. i have done research and tried to get it as accurate as possible. if something is wrong please let me know.  
> also i am not american. so have low expectations of the accuracy of the school system.

For some goddamn reason, Nico’s high school decided it would be an excellent idea to have an orientation day for freshman students. Even after Percy’s Jackson’s infamous debacle three years ago at the school’s first orientation that ended with him nearly setting the school on fire. 

Of course, in theory, an orientation day was a good idea. (Aside from the dangers of accidental arson.) Students could find their lockers, find their classes, learn to navigate around the high school, get tips from the older students running it, et cetera, et cetera. 

Of course, in practicality, it was a terrible idea. Nico decided it was mostly because the people running it were seniors that desperately needed volunteer hours to graduate.

Nice was hoping that the orientation would be helpful. He was hoping that it would help him figure out what exactly to do on the first day of school next week. (Was he supposed to wander and find his homeroom class? Would his teachers be okay with him bringing his backpack in? What were the rules for this?)

The day started with absolute chaos, and Nico digging through his backpack to try and find his earbuds to try and block some of the noise out. Nico didn’t know where to go. He didn’t know what to look at or what to listen to, because it was so goddamn loud. It didn’t help that he had lost his schedule a month ago (they were given them at their grade eight grad) and had no idea what his homeroom class was. (It was either drama or English, or possibly French.) (Freshmen had to take one second language course, and Italian grammar was much closer to French than it was Spanish, even though Italian and Spanish sound familiar. Nico did research. And also speaks fluent Italian. And his half sister has been trying to teach him Louisiana French.)

With an odd mix of old jazz, classical music, and 1930s swing music blasting through the tiny speakers on his earbuds, Nico figured he should probably ask someone for help. There were older kids holding up posters of some kind. With a good thirty seconds of squinting at each poster (Nico had reading glasses to help him focus, but they only worked for short distances and he wasn’t going to be the kid that wandered up uncomfortably close to each group trying to read the posters) he was able to figure out which groups was which class.

Which group should Nico choose to go ask for the attendance? If he went to the wrong one, it would be humiliating. But if he went to the right one, there was a chance he could ask the student there not to use his full name. There were pros and cons to each option, but Nico did have to pick one before they left. That would (objectively) be worse than going up to the wrong group?

Well. Would it?

Yes. 

With the amazing thought process of picking a class randomly (was it random if Nico was the one choosing it? There was a week-long phase of endless psychology wikipedia pages and it was possible he was subconsciously influencing it, and if that was happening how exactly could it be random?)

From what Nico understood of this whole ordeal, students were expected to separate into their homeroom classes and wait until the principal said to start. The majority of people seemed to instead be chatting with their friends, because otherwise how the hell could it be this loud? Nico turned the swing music up louder. 

He wandered over to the drama-class-group, and was about to ask the somewhat-professional-looking student with a clipboard whether he was in the right class, when the principal started to make the first announcement.

Nico better have picked the right group. What if he hadn’t, and was now waiting perpetually for his name that wouldn’t be called on attendance? Or if the group that he was supposed to be in though he was missing or just didn't show up? And he just sort of waited in the atrium on the stair-bench-things with no idea what to do?

(The layout was really weird. There was a foyer with an office on one side, the cafeteria on the other, then a floating staircase to the second floor. There were hallways to the sides and of course the stair-benh things on the far end.)

Nico had kind of zoned out, but he figured the gist of the announcement was just to sort of welcome new students, and how happy they were that they were here, et cetera, et cetera. The rest of the kids had started making their way to their groups, much to the relief of the older students in charge.

There were about twenty, twenty-five other kids in Nico’s class--and had all already separated into stereotypical cliques. The main difference (the rest just seemed to be subgroups) was the kids who were obviously taking drama for the credit, and the kids who actually wanted to be there. A couple of the kids Nico recognized from the middle school he went to for about a week a year until his dad remembered Nico existed and paid the tuition for the “local” private school. (It happened every year since he switched schools in grade four, when he officially switched out from the public school board.)

“Okay, so, uh, we’ll be taking attendance now to, uh, make sure everyone’s here,” one of the seniors said. The senior’s eye was twitching.

He started going through his list of names, presumably in alphabetic order. Nico hated attendance and today was no better because he had no idea if he was actually in the right place or even if his name was even on the list. If it was on the list, he had no idea what to say. Here? Present? Hello? Et cetera, et cetera and in any variation of the above. (Yay private school and devastating grief and pain from a young age for those stellar communication skills.) What’s more was that everyone tried to use Nico’s full name and because, in American English, the name seemed to be considered a fairly feminine name, so the teachers almost never believed the person they were looking for was actually just Nico.

He heard some kids snickering and looked up, starting to pay attention. If his name was on the list it would be called fairly soon--di Angelo wouldn’t exactly be far down on their list.

“Uh, Nicolo di Angelo? Are you here? I, uh, don’t want to have to deal with missing kids this early.”

So he was in the right place.

But he missed his name being called.

This was a disaster. Should he pretend that he wasn’t there and just sort of tag along anyways? It wasn’t like they’d notice him. 

Or would they, and should he just speak up now?

“It’s just Nico.” His voice was sharp and he kinda felt bad for the senior, but kids were laughing at his name, and being an asshole was the best way to get rid of him. 

The senior with the clipboard (wow that took too long to think. Nico decided to refer to him as SWC.) said, “Uh, sorry, Nico,” and moved on.

The kids stopped snickering, but that seemed to be only because they had moved on to other things they were gossiping about with their friends.

Nico had friends, (sort of) and would fight anyone who said he didn’t. (Mostly because they seemed to use it as an insult.) Nico could reluctantly say that his friends were closer to family, though, and they seemed to designate him as their little brother. It didn’t help that because they were all a few years older (and with his perpetual emo phase) nobody ever believed him.

“Uh, okay,” SWC said. “Everyone’s here, so the principal just needs to make another announcement, and the, uh,we can start.”

At that, the principal clapped her hands, and spoke into her megaphone. “Once again, welcome, students, both new and returning. The next four years of your life will be yours to shine through and flourish--”

Nico scoffed at that. Shining was for gemstones and flourishing was for plants, and he was neither.

The principal continued. “This will be your year to make new friends, join clubs, try out for new sports, find new interests, and learn new things about yourself. Team leaders, I need your attendance before we start your tour. I will call out each class at a time, and you can start one by one.”

With that, she started calling names, and everyone at once started talking again. For the umpteenth time, Nico turned his music up. The names were most likely teachers’ names, as they all sounded like last names, and Nico wasn’t sure if the teachers would actually call students by their last names like they do in bad English dramas. Also, the groups started leaving when she called the names.

Why were last names even a thing? Were they supposed to be some family thing so you didn’t accidentally marry someone related to you? But plenty of people that weren’t related had the same last name. And plenty of people that were related didn’t.

Or was it so people could tell who was who? Like when people had duplicates of the same first name? (At Nico’s old school there were four Samanthas, four Samuels, two Sams, and a Sammy. There were only three hundred kids.) But there were also people with the same last and first name. (At Nico’s old school, there were two Emma Dickens.)

Nico was jolted out of his thoughts when he was shoved, roughly, and realized his class had already started leaving. He ran to catch up, scowling the whole time. 

“Okay, we’ll show you how to get to your homeroom class and where your lockers are, and then for the rest of the time you can, uh, wander the school to look for your other classes,” SWC started. “The fastest way to get to drama is to go down the hallway by the cafeteria.” He went off in the direction he specified.

Continuing walking, SWC kept point out hallways or rooms, but in a very unhelpful way. Such as saying or pointing out a hallway that they should or shouldn’t use, and then not actually going down it.

 

Why did Nico think this would be helpful, again? All of the teachers or instructors or whatever always assumed everyone was neurotypical and just went off of that. 

 

Nico just followed everyone else, and resolved that this was a waste of time. 

He twisted his ring around his finger. 

And where the hell were they in the school? He was with the rest of the group, if a step or two behind. He was following the seniors. But they had been walking for ten minutes and still hadn’t reached where their lockers were yet. The school couldn’t have been that big, right? 

SWC must’ve stopped or said something, because all of a sudden Nico ran into someone. The someone was vaguely familiar, with fluffy blond hair and was the kind of Caucasian that seemed sort of golden-y tan. He wore a band shirt of a band Nico didn’t recognize, but probably should’ve.

Did the boy go to the middle school Nico was supposed to go to? Probably, because there really wasn’t any other reason that Nico would recognize him. Or maybe they went to summer camp together when they were younger?

No, that was when Nico was, like, ten. Or maybe eight? But other than the first week or so Nico went to the public school every year, the last time he had actually been was grade four. 

“Are you gonna apologize?” the boy asked, but was sort of smiling. And fidgeting with an old-ish necklace with clay beads. Did he recognize Nico? Because if so, this was going to get really awkward when Nico didn’t know the boy’s name.

“For what,” Nico said bluntly.

“For running into me?” 

“I’m sorry that you stopped suddenly.” Nico wanted to put an end to this conversation before he said something off.

“Yeah, because we’re at our lockers now and the kids that brought locks can choose one and put their stuff in it.”

Nico looked up and around, and sure enough there were kids by the lockers, trying to pick ones next to their friends. There were a couple of defining features by their lockers; one, it was right next to the cosmetology, which was defined posters and doll heads and other cosmetology-esque things. The other was that it was by the workshop room, which had concrete floor and power tools. The third was that the hallway was sort of sandwiched by the two gyms.

Had Nico brought a lock? He dropped his backpack and started pulling random, crumpled papers out. He had brought binders and a pencil case to put in a locker (he remembered that, at least), but not a lock.

Nico scowled at his bag, as if it was the bag’s fault for not containing a lock. 

SWC said, “If you, uh, didn’t bring a lock, that’s fine, uh, you can get one on the first day with your homeroom teacher. And if you do have one and want to choose a locker, tell me the number and your name and I’ll write it down.” 

The boy that Nico probably should know rolled his eyes and said, “Like anyone is actually going to remember their locker number.”

Well, Nico didn’t know how to add to conversations. And usually didn’t want to. “Please, you just forgot your lock too and just want to seem like you’re edgy.”

The boy gasped, dramatically, and placed an arm to his chest as though he was wounded. “How dare you accuse me of such an atrocious act! I’ll have you know I’m perfectly edgy on my own without having to use such drastic measures.”

Deadpan, Nico said, “You’re literally wearing a pastel band shirt. I’ll believe you’re edgy the day I die.”

“Just because what I’m wearing is pastel doesn’t mean I’m not edgy. Maybe it’s ironic.”

Nico snorted. “So now you’re going to say I’m soft and pastel now.”

“Maybe the black ripped jeans and literal parka--by the way it’s August it’s like thirty degrees how do you not have heat stroke--are also ironic”

Nico scowled. “It’s not a parka, it’s an aviator jacket.”

Nico liked his jacket. It was warm and fuzzy and very soft. It was also like three sizes too big. Was he sweating? Yes. Was he getting heat stroke? Hopefully not. How bad could heat stroke really be, anyways?

“It’s a winter coat, dude. It’s literally the same thing.”

Nico glared at the boy. Couldn’t he tell that Nico was trying to end the conversation? 

(Well. End it before he said something stupid?) 

“I honestly don’t care if it’s a winter coat. It’s comfortable.”

The boy held his hands up, as if to say, hey, it’s your heatstroke. 

“Hey, uh, I think everyone has their lockers written down, so you guys have like fifteen minutes to try and find the rest of your classes.”

Nico dropped his bag again, and started rifling through the loose papers that had somehow already accumulated. Did he bring a map? He remembered writing a sticky-note reminder to print one off, but did? He vaguely remembered fighting with the printer, trying to make it start—don’t get Nico started on printers; if any inanimate object was to have soul, and use that soul be be a complete asshole, it would be a printer—but was that for the map or an assignment from last year. Or it could’ve been from the acting workshop his dad thought Nico’d like but forgot to sign the forms. Or was the from the genealogy project from grade seven that everyone had to do?

Whatever the case, Nico eventually found a crumpled up, stained piece of paper that appeared to be a map. It was mostly illegible for people even without dyslexia but it was better than nothing, right?

Nico got his reading glasses out (another benefit of the aviator jacket—he could stuff his glasses in it and they would fit) and attempted to decipher the map. 

“Shit,” Nico said. The map was entirely useless without his classroom numbers and they were on his schedule. That he lost. “Shit.”

Nico could wander the school to become familiar with its layout. Someone had mentioned that types of classes were usually together; there was probably a math hall, a science hall or an English hall he could try to find. 

Was there really any point, though? He sort of knew were Drama was, and he would hopefully get a new copy of his schedule on the actual first day of school, so was there really any point? He could print off a new version of the map at home anyways and try to puzzle it out from there. 

(Would he? Almost certainly not. Could he pretend he was going to so he wouldn’t think about it? Absolutely.)

Nico took out his phone, texted Jules-Albert to come and pick him up, then wrote down the drama room number in notes. Under purple, for school stuff. Important school stuff.) 

He looked up, took his glasses off (they helped him focus for close distances but made his vision absolutely shit for far away) and noticed that the boy had left while Nico was busy. The hall seemed quieter without another person’s presence. 

Their awkward small-talk conversation was over. 

Just like Nico had wanted. 

He went to try and find Jules-Albert before everyone else tried to leave. Also, Nico didn’t want to hear the principal go on and on about the best years of your life. School in general was usually really shitty for him, what with the faint Italian accent, ADHD, dyslexia, anxiety, and also bucket loads of grief and anguish. 

(Huh. Maybe tall fluffy-haired blond boy had a point about being edgy. Tall fluffy-haired blond boy also had freckles. And possibly blue eyes.)

And, as if the cherry on some hellish sundae, Nico couldn’t forget to mention the internalized homophobia. And an old-fashioned father whom Nico hasn’t even considered coming out to yet. 

High school was going to be great.

**Author's Note:**

> please leave kudos or a comment if you got this far! i have no idea how to make this register as unfinished (if it has great), but it will have more chapters! also thank you
> 
> soleil
> 
>  
> 
> *edit* i don’t think i’m coming back to this fic. i haven’t had the motivation to write for it in months. i might do oneshots in this universe (key word is might) in the future, but that isn’t a certainty. 
> 
> thanks
> 
> soleil


End file.
